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Carol hated funerals, especially if she didn't know the deceased. However, everyone from the office was going so she felt obligated. Mr., what was his name again, Flattbottle, Fratbutton, Fabbuttle, oh it was useless. He'd have to remain Mr. F., which was what she always wound up calling him. And he never recalled her name either, so it didn't much matter. He would never get her name right now.
The attendees were dressed in black. "Damn!", Carol thought, I shouldn't have wore a hula skirt and macramé bra. Why doesn't someone tell me what to wear? Next time I'll log into the web cam, get the scoop and then show up fashionably late. She tried to ignore the muttered snideness and cold shoulders presented by the offended attendees, but when one actually snapped the spandex on her headband, she yelped and scooted to a center seat.
"I hate these things, don't you?" said Phyllis who was wearing a neon-orange nuns habit and white vinyl go-go boot. "Sit next to me and we'll show 'em how its done."
